That You Grieve For Those Days
by Little Obsessions
Summary: "Sometimes it is not terror which fills him but longing. A longing she, and not even his adoring children, can satisfy." Percy and Marguerite consider the shadows of their past.


Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. I am simply borrowing them. I make no monetary gain from writing this.

I think, in retrospect, all that Percy witnessed and did would have had an adverse effect on him. This is my (humble) exploration of this.

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><p><strong>That You Grieve for Those Days<strong>

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><p>Sometimes it is very easy to forget what he once was, what he has seen, and sometimes it is very difficult.<p>

The smell of roses is almost sickly. It is dancing on the border of being nauseating but it just manages to remain appealing. Perhaps if she had been in a less gracious mood she would have found it irritating as it seems always to be so strong on nights like this. She moves through the rose garden, trailing her hands across the soft petals. Some are fragile under her hands and they float to the ground, others are hardy against her caress. She is not like the English women; those who find pleasure in their beautifully tended gardens and the well-organised hosting of tea parties.

He cannot sleep on these nights and she often wanders through shards of cutting moonlight to find him. As she often does, she finds him sitting on a stone bench beside his most favourite fountain, his great coat covering his night gown, his hair loose around his shoulders. It is ribbon free and fanned out against his back. Where once it was corn coloured, golden in the bravest sun, it's now streaked white and pale.

The water tinkles through the air, breaking the hot night into shattered little pieces of sound and vision. Today they had sat in the sun, spread out on a blanket with sandwiches and strawberries and wine between them. The children, noisy and fleeting streaks of pink and gold and white had darted in amongst the trees. It had been heaven, just for a moment. It had dazzled her and she thought of their picnics before; their care-free, happy jaunts in the Parisian country side. She has not been to France in a decade. She misses her home, even though she cannot remember what it feels like.

Her home is sitting in front of her, curled over on the stone bench. His broad shoulders are stooped forward and he cradles his head in his hands. His body betrays his sadness. His body always betrays him.

To all in fashionable society Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet, appears to be well-refined and lily-soft in his appearance but underneath layers of silk and brocade he is scarred. On his collar-bone there is a strawberry hued gash that runs from the base of his neck and finishes at the crest of his shoulder. On the depression above his hip, an opalescent, risen scar ascends up to his ribs. On his chest, parallel to his heart, there is a little sunburst of knotted skin from a poorly removed Charleville musket ball. It had been infected for weeks after the surgeon's disastrous removal aboard a wave-battered Daydream and the skin around it illustrated the heated path of the infection. She had tended to it gently, reverently, as a nurse might, and she saw it nursed back to health as best she could before he went from her again. His wrists and ankles have permanent bracelets where manacles once bruised and tore at the tender flesh during his incarceration. When his skin is flushed before the fire, the flesh becomes mottled and patchy and he has resorted to even more elaborately frilled cuffs to assuage his self-consciousness.

These are the scars she has memorised but there are countless more.

He is a patchwork of scars; first from rapiers then laterally muskets. His skin tells the story of the Scarlet Pimpernel, even when his lips are sealed to the truth.

There are other scars of course – those not visible to the eye. It is cliché, perhaps, but it suits him perfectly.

It came slowly, the horror. At first it crept into him during sleep, causing him to toss and turn at intervals through the night. The sheets would be damp with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, his voice groaning then ascending to a cry of terror. Then the horror began to wake with him in the morning too, sitting with him as he broke his fast in silence. Soon it joined him on the cricket pitch and followed him on his hunts. It crawled into bed with him when he crawled into bed with her. And then it was there all the time. It has become the third creature in their marriage.

She wonders, when she is feeling particularly bitter, if he hates the adventurer that propelled him across the Channel and away from her. She will not ever ask him because she would hate to hear the answer. They were good days, she consoles herself, when they were happening.

Who would have guessed what they would leave in their wake?

Four times her belly has swollen as if it were the full sails of a ship, then blessed them with a tiny and pink little child each time, and nearly a decade has passed and yet the terror still slips in silently at times. It is not there all the time but when it does come it comes with fullness and finds him here, sitting before the fountain or gazing aimlessly across their estate.

He lifts his head as she sits beside him, sidling close to his warmth. Despite the scourges upon his body, he is still strong and vital and in his age, has grown even more attractive. He reaches out his hand and wraps it around her shoulders.

"Is sleep proving elusive milord?"

He chuckles darkly.

"I wanted to go to the nursery…yet I found myself here," he answers, "I was frightened I would awaken them. Sometimes I dream about what they did to the Dauphin and I fear so greatly for them…"

His words flee him then and he merely shakes his head. He smiles sheepishly, embarrassed by his sentimentality. She finds it endearing and attractive. He is such a good father; so free with his affection, that she is often surprised that it embarrasses him.

"They are well," she promises, "They are safe."

"I was reckless," he says, as if he is sharing some secret he had never shared before.

"Yes, I know."

She touches his hair softly then reaches over to kiss his cheek. His skin is warm, his cheeks rough with the stubble he lets grow when there is no invitation to Carlton House or Bath. The invitations are less now because they go less when they are invited. They know it upsets the Prince Regent yet they do not care as much as they used to. They are still society's darlings even though they do not deserve such fulsome titles.

Percy has grown tired of the fop expected of him so he avoids it. She has grown tired of the witty ingénue that she is so far-removed from. They are older now and they are happy living with their terrors and their children among these beautiful roses.

"I am sorry, at times," he says, "Then I am not sorry. I am sorry for what I did to you, most of all, Margot."

"Once I knew, you had my fullest support."

The lie, so often told, is easy.

He casts a sideways glance at her, acknowledges her perfidy, and smiles with gratefulness. He know she is lying and yet it is easy to lie about the pains of the past. What is difficult for them both is to acknowledge the pains of the present and the ones of the future.

Sometimes it is not terror which fills him but longing. A longing she, and not even his adoring children, can satisfy. It hurts her more than anything to be privy to this knowledge but she has lived with it so long that she is no longer shocked by it.

"You feel lost at times Percy," she says softly, her lilting French tongue making her words less bitter, "And we would be foolish to ignore the fact that you grieve for those days."

He turns his head to look at her and smiles ruefully, as if he has been caught doing something he ought not to do.

"Perhaps Marguerite," he whispers, "It is my regret that keeps me awake rather than my longing. Yes I miss it but I…I have given more of myself to it than I realised. More of our marriage than I realised at the time. I was such a young man."

"Yes," she laughs, "And I was your young wife who loved a wild adventurer. And look at us now…"

He shakes his head, "Are we happier?"

She considers his question seriously even though she feels she already grasps it fully. Yes they are happier, more reflective perhaps, a little more introvert, but nonetheless they are happier. Or at least, she is.

"Yes," she answers after a pause, "We are more honest, perhaps, than we used to be."

"And most definitely older," he grumbles, "Sink me if I don't find it difficult to get out of bed in the morn."

She laughs at his grumbling then takes his hand, "Are you happy Percy?"

"Madam," he turns to her, his eyes wide and dark, his mouth open and honest, "Despite the appearance to the contrary I am so very happy. It is simply that sometimes, my sporting choices come back to puzzle me. Then I think of our children and it makes me…"

His words fade and he shakes his head, "I am growing too old."

"We are all growing old," she says softly, "Correct me if I am mistaken but I would swear our dear Sir Andrew is balding."

He laughs at her cruelty, something he has admitted to rather linking of her character, and takes her hand.

"I would put money on it," he says, "Poor Andrew."

"Poor Andrew nothing," she answers, "You are paying now for the folly of your youth, as well all are. Some of us a bigger price than others. Some of us more guilt than others."

He takes her hand in his, "Your pretty head is too full now of serious thoughts. On nights like these you must stop coming after me."

"Oh but I cannot help myself," she says, "I can't help myself."

"That was always your problem my darling," he teases, playing with the simple gold band around her finger, "You would follow, and behind you or before you would trail M. Chauvelin!"

At the mention of his name both of them grow quiet. It is fascinating how an enemy can unite and divide two people so fully and simultaneously.

"Besides milord," she says, ending the silence of reflection, "You are not old by any stretch of the imagination. Your acrobatics today would suggest entirely otherwise."

"Yes the boys did rather enjoy it, eh what? Particularly when I feigned a fall from that bottom branch," he smiles, "Though I would argue they did not learn much from my climbing, too interested in hoping I should fall."

"You accuse your sons of such treachery," she laughs, "Ah but they suspect you are more than you would have society believe."

"Then they take their cleverness from their mother."

He reaches out his hand and pushes her loose hair back from her face, "You are as beautiful as the day you first bewitched me from the stage, do you know? Even more beautiful perhaps as you grow older."

"You flatter me with your lies," she dips her head as she speaks.

"Marguerite, I have never lied. Not for many years," he kisses her forehead, "Perhaps, now you have put my mind at ease you might allow me to take you to bed."

She lowers her head, bites her lips as coquettishly as a woman of her age and her experience can muster, and smiles.

"Percy, how scandalous."

"M'dear," he stands, his full height still rendering her breathless in the moonlight, "We never did invite scandal."

"No," she takes his offered hand, "It always did find us."

He takes her to bed, and when she pulls him atop her and he tugs at the hem of her night gown she feels the safety, the wonder in their union that she always has. He is safe here, he tells her. He is happy. And despite the truth that she knows, she believes him. Though she knows, truly, how fully he grieves for those days.


End file.
